


treat it like it's sacred (i'mma let you bless this)

by cryonica



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Breeding Kink, CREST KINK, Choking, Creampie, Crests (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Cunnilingus, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Has a Big Dick, F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Feral Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Marathon Sex, No Refractory Period, Possessive Sex, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy, You heard me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryonica/pseuds/cryonica
Summary: A thousand years of Blaiddyd strength runs through Dimitri’s veins, and Byleth offers herself up to the mouth of the lion that lives in him, a sacrificial lamb at the altar of his need.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 21
Kudos: 202





	treat it like it's sacred (i'mma let you bless this)

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again at krispy kreme _slaps keyboard and does a backflip combo into the garreg mach dining hall_
> 
> title from _pillow talk_ by vials; if you haven’t yet written smut to it on constant loop what the fuck are you waiting for
> 
> i wrote dimitri in some variation of [this outfit](https://ianshepard.files.wordpress.com/2019/08/three-houses-lord.jpg?w=768&h=432), but your mileage may vary; idk go apeshit go stupid go feral
> 
> *smooches the dimileth discord gently*

There are days Byleth curses Sothis for her journey from the Blue Sea Star to Fódlan; for man's theft of the fire that had flickered through her veins, so that he may know what it means to burn.

(Days such as this one, where all Byleth feels is a liquid warmth that slides slick beneath her skin in time with her pulse, thick and heavy and settled too deep in her belly; a primordial fever she cannot sweat out.)

If not for the progenitor god, there would be no Church of Seiros for Byleth to rip apart at the seams, tearing it kicking and screaming from its masses to be drawn and quartered, a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. It gives her no small amount of satisfaction to think that Seiros’s dying wish for Byleth to lead the Church would be the final nail in its rotting coffin; its millennia-old foundation crumbling until there is nothing left to do but clear away the rubble and begin anew.  
  


_(“The people of Fódlan do not need a master who will command their piety from the handle of a blade,” she told Seteth, amidst the gardens of the Star Terrace. “Seiros wished for the resurrection of Sothis to guide humanity where she believed it had been lost. She denied her mother eternal rest all because she did not see man as fit to carve his own destiny._

_“But the progenitor god sleeps within me now,” Byleth said, looking up to the Blue Sea Star, “and Seiros's too-long reign has been laid to rest with her corpse. So too must this institution come to an end.” She met her advisor’s eyes, and he could see his mother’s fire behind them, in all its finality. “It has steered the path of humanity for long enough.”_

_“If you bend the Church too far, you will break it,” the Nabatean warned her, though he could offer no argument in response. In his heart of hearts, he knew she was right. Seiros had kept man muzzled and chained for countless ages while she had waited for their mother’s return, stagnating the continent to prevent the history of the Agarthans from repeating itself._

_“That is exactly the point,” Byleth countered. The shimmer of the Crest of Flames settled heavy in the air; a spark ignited, a blaze to be born. “And then I will remake it.”)  
  
_

The Church of Seiros is now the Coven of Sothis. Upon ascending to the seat of power at Garreg Mach in the war’s aftermath, Byleth discarded the title of Archbishop as quickly as she had gained it. Beginning by dissolving the formal structure of the Church and disbanding its military force, the mercenary-turned-High Priestess began the long process of detangling the myriad threads that tied the institution to its political influence, cutting loose its claws that had sunk themselves into the continent’s flesh. Now, to honor the progenitor god is to work in the craft as an equal to her divinity, not worship as lesser to it.

 _You wanted to walk with me, Edelgard?_ The former mercenary sighs, her feather quill scratching across the parchment laid out on what was once Seiros’s desk. _You needed only to let me take my first step._

Reforming and restructuring a religious institution built on the strict obedience of its congregation and the political power of its military strength is no easy task. Far less easy is revealing the truth of the former Archbishop’s identity and the origins of the Heroes’ Relics. The hardest will be stripping the Crest system to its barest bones for the masses to see, their obsessive desire for what amounts to crude, ill-gotten blood magic laid bare. Byleth knows it is unlikely that Crests will ever disappear from humanity’s bloodlines completely. But she is determined to someday purge the inequality that the Agarthans created, that Nemesis and the Ten Elites propagated, and that Seiros bent to her long-lived will.

 _When a Crest-bearer dies, they are still just a corpse,_ she muses. She flips to the next page in the draft of her plan to relinquish the Officer’s Academy to Faerghan control. The heat in her belly flares again.

_Still, one cannot deny their more...primal uses._

It glitters in the spaces of her ribs as it drips between her legs to the apex of her thighs. It bubbles so close to the surface, a champagne tingle in the back of her throat that slides slick to her core and leaves her mouth desert-dry. The High Priestess shifts in her chair, sinking further into the plush fabric. The thick wool of her dress scratches warmth against her skin. Winters in the Oghma Mountains are nothing compared to the bitter, otherworldly chill of Faerghus in the heart of a Pegasus Moon. But Seiros’s vision for Garreg Mach did not include radiant heating systems like the royal complex in Fhirdiad, much to Byleth’s irritation. She curls in on herself a little more, at once welcoming the heat between her legs and wishing for it to dissipate so she can concentrate.

The fur of Dimitri’s heavy cloak brushes against her cheek as she moves, a soft caress that splinters stardust down her spine. Byleth has her own that fit much better and lighter, that don’t envelop her in a veritable fort of pelage, but she doesn’t care. The cloud of stark-white fur smells of pine sap and hoarfrost and bonfire, ancient traces of Faerghus that are buried deep in her husband’s bones and left behind in everything he touches, including herself.

Byleth breathes deep, inhaling the comforting scent of hearth and husband and _home,_ tinged with the electric current of his Crest that nips at his heels and drips from his teeth. Among other minor Nabatean traits, her fusion with Sothis granted her a sixth sense for Crests. Each one radiates a unique sensation from the body and blood of its bearer.

The Crest of Blaiddyd is an animal in the shade of contempt. It is sharpened teeth and unhinged jaw, a primal beast in eternal bondage. It would crush the stars in its mouth and swallow the world whole if let loose from its chains.

(It is the most delicious taste that has ever crossed Byleth’s tongue, licked from the hound-teeth of her King to settle hot and heavy in her belly, rearing its head when its desire wakes to rattle its threadbare cage.)

The High Priestess realizes she has been staring blankly at the papers on her desk for minutes on end. Her owl feather is poised above them to write, but her hand remains still. The bubbling heat in her throat spills from her lips in a heady sigh as she tosses the feather down and shoves her chair back, buried in Dimitri’s cloak as she stands.

Rebuilding the continent of Fódlan can _wait._  
  


*

Byleth finds Dimitri in what was once the monastery’s war room, deep in conversation with Gilbert and Alois. Upon formally disbanding the Church, she gave the Knights of Seiros the choice to return to civilian life or to join the ranks of the Faerghan relief guard. Most of them followed Alois and agreed to transfer. Garreg Mach has since become the center of a large number of post-war relief and reconstruction efforts for former Empire and Alliance territories.

None of them notice her at first. The High Priestess peeks around the cold stone of the large doorway to see the three of them gathered around a massive map of Fódlan. Dimitri is in the center, pointing to various locations in former Adrestian territory as the trio discusses the restoration of the lands most ravaged by the five and a half years of war.

Byleth watches her husband while he speaks, listening intently. The rich timbre of his voice is edged with a tired rasp. He is still too thin, worn and weary from the war, as all of them are. She observes how he favors his right arm as he leans over the table. It is now a permanent occurrence, the numbness in his left hand a peripheral reminder of Edelgard’s final act of defiance. The shadows under his eye are dark, but not as deep as they were when she found him, unkempt and unmade in the Goddess Tower. There is a slight softness to the sharp line of his jaw again that she hasn’t seen since his academy days. His hair is pulled back in the small half-tail she had done for him this morning, the rest brushing against his cheeks atop the mountain of fur that covers his shoulders. 

Byleth smiles to herself. King and country are both recovering, slowly but surely.

Her stocking feet are silent on the hard stone and plush rugs, but the drag of Dimitri’s cloak behind her gives her away as she enters. The three occupants look up at her, pleasantly surprised. Byleth does not miss the way her husband’s eye widens ever so at the sight of his cloak enveloping her small figure.

“Your Grace,” Gilbert greets her, Alois half-bowed towards her. The corners of her mouth turn up in amusement. She raises her hand, signaling them to be at ease, as always.

“There is no need for formalities among friends,” she tells them, coming to stand beside Dimitri. The blond wraps an arm around her waist, his protectiveness war-born and instinctual. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of her forehead, mindful of the halo crown still pinned to her hair. Faerghan tradition is somewhat less stifling than Adrestia or the Church had been, second only to the candid openness of the former Leicester Alliance. She holds Dimitri’s hand or leans on him as she pleases, and he greets her with affection whenever he desires. Her presence and touch ground him, and Byleth does not wish to suffocate him under the weight of a continent’s expectations any further than his body and bloodline and five war-torn years have already done. The heads of spirit and state trading gentle affections throughout the day is now as common a sight as the animals that roam the monastery grounds.

“Are you well, beloved?” her King asks, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Byleth answers, the liquid warmth in her throat flaring at the scent of oiled leather and steel that clings to the blond. She leans into the thick wool of his deep blue doublet. The electric current of his Crest prickles through her skin where their bodies touch, lingering between her legs. “I have simply come to steal you away when you are finished here. A rather intricate matter of coven and country has come to my attention.”

Dimitri’s breath catches softly, the sound lodged in his throat as quickly as it had come. _Matters of coven and country_ quickly became a code between them after their marriage, when one wished to meet with the other to attend to various necessary engagements. 

_(Alone.)_

“The rebuilding of a continent never ceases,” Alois sighs. Gilbert begins to rearrange the papers the three had strewn about the table. “What time even is it, anyway?”

“Do not feel obligated to stop on my account. It is a matter of importance,” Byleth explains, leaning subtly into Dimitri’s touch, “but it is certainly not an urgent one.”

“The hour is late, and we have reached a good stopping point anyway,” the elder knight says, a neat stack of documents on the table where there had been a haphazard pile before. “Until tomorrow, then?”

“Indeed. A pleasant night to you both,” Dimitri replies. Byleth can hear how his voice is taut, stretched thin. Whether from fatigue or desire, she doesn’t know, nor does it really matter. The heat beneath her skin flickers in fits and starts, aching and _hungry._

“Goodnight, Your Majesty, Your Grace.”

*

The instant Dimitri and Byleth cross the threshold into their chambers, the King of Faerghus crushes the High Priestess’s mouth to his, a large hand on her waist holding her exactly where he wants her. His kisses are fang-rough and fire-slick, igniting the need that burns liquid in Byleth’s blood.

(If the Crest of Blaiddyd unchained would swallow the world whole, then the Crest of Flames is what is left at the end of all things when the universe comes undone at the seams.)

Dimitri’s hands slip beneath the oversized cloak, sliding it from the High Priestess’s shoulders and to the floor. There is gravel in his voice, dark and deep like the shadows that sometimes linger beneath his remaining eye, when the weight of crown and country sink too far into his skin.

“How long have you been like this, Byleth?” Dimitri says her name like a prayer to the divinity that rests eternal within his beloved’s unbeating heart and the earth beneath them. His gloved hands trace the edges of her crown, a half-circle halo of golden rays and silver stars. She takes his large hand in her smaller one, guiding his fingers to her mouth, red and raw from his kisses. She slides her tongue over his index finger, then his middle, biting the soft black leather. Her eyes are locked to his as she pulls it from his hand with her teeth and lets it go, a ragged breath shuddering from his throat.

“I cannot remember a time when I haven’t,” Byleth confesses. Dimitri smooths his thumb over her bottom lip, nudging her mouth open to trace its edges. His eye is transfixed to the curve of her hound-teeth, sharp and deadly like his own; a visceral reminder that what aches within their blood is something far more than human. His thumb presses against the flat of her tongue, and hot, wet heat courses through his veins. Byleth’s Crest of Flames resonates with his Crest of Blaiddyd, a glittering cascade behind his eyes and in his heart, like nothing his need has ever been before.

 _Primal uses, indeed,_ the former mercenary thinks, swirling her tongue around her husband’s finger, languid, soft, determined to swallow every rational thought in his mind until there is nothing left but blood and fire and _her._ The noise she draws from his throat is rough and greedy, dripping from his teeth like ichor. It spills into her mouth and over her skin when the King replaces his thumb with his kisses. He pulls at his remaining glove, letting it fall to the floor before his hands cup her face. His palms are so large, so _warm,_ and his Crest hums steadily between the lines of his skin.

She claws at the steel covering his left shoulder and his chest, digging her hands beneath the thick layer of his cloak and furs to find the leather straps. With the war’s end, what little armor Dimitri wears is more ceremonial than practical, a symbol of his status as King. It doesn’t stop Byleth’s gaze from lingering a moment too long, however, whenever she looks at him upon the throne in Fhirdiad, crowned in gold and clothed in his ancestral blue.

(And if she thinks too long of her Savior King, returned to the seat of power that now rules the continent, she wonders what it would be like to sink to her knees in fealty between his legs, Areadbhar in one hand, her head in his other.)

Dimitri reaches for the cravat at his neck, undoing the clasp that secures it and his cloak. He shrugs the heavy fabric off his shoulders, breath wrung ragged through his teeth as Byleth finishes with the buckles and straps of his armor. Steel and silver fall to the carpet with a soft _clink._ Her husband’s hands move to her waist, gripping the curve of her hips through the dark wool of her dress. She can already feel the shadows of the bruises he will leave behind.

(She _can’t wait._ )

Byleth undoes the buttons at his high collar, his mouth greedy on her neck as she works. The press of his hound-teeth into her jugular grows more fervent with every button she releases. Her King bites love-marks into her skin, a necklace of blood painted dark against her throat. The thought of it lingering above the collar of her regalia sends an electric chill down her spine.

Byleth shoves the thick doublet open, digging her nails like claws into the starched white shirt underneath. Her husband gasps into her mouth at the pinpricks she leaves, breaking their kiss. She untucks his shirt fervently, undoing the buttons and trailing her fingers down his ribs to feel the sharp lines of his hips. He’s so _warm_ beneath her touch, pulse heavy and hot as she presses a kiss to his stomach, following the dusting of blond hair to the edge of his trousers. 

Byleth drops to her knees, in reverence to her King and the outline of his cock through the inky black wool. Dimitri draws in a ragged breath, cut jagged into his throat, and shoves a hand into her mint hair. He guides her head as she swipes her tongue along the barely-contained flesh, the friction of fabric only adding to the thick heat that consumes her jaw. The sight of her beneath him, the shadow of the progenitor god given new life, crowned in a halo of stars and glimmering gold, is almost enough to bring him to his own knees.

(That he would be worshipped like this by the goddess incarnate should feel like the most profound blasphemy. But Dimitri is far from caring when her hands slide up his clothed thighs to pull him closer, the scrape of her hound-teeth igniting lightning behind his eyes, like the end of one lifetime and the beginning of another.)

Byleth’s hands reach for the hooks of his waistband, unlocking them and undoing the buttons that keep his trousers closed. Their eyes meet as she slips her fingers beneath the wool, taking him in her hand. The King’s grip on her hair tightens ever so, the minty strands a haloed mess around her face. The scratch of his nails against her scalp is a brand, star-burning and scalding, reminding her to whom she is beholden when she loves him like this.

She manages a single slide of her tongue over his cock before the bubbling of blood in his veins overflows. The primordial beast that beats from his heart breaks free, his Crest unbidden, swallowing him whole.

“ _G_ _et up_ ,” he hisses, and yes, _yes,_ she thinks, _there it is._ The undercurrent of his Crest flashes in the air, like a spell sigil, charged and primed before it is cast. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end with static, every inch of his skin against hers sparking with maddening, feverish heat.

Dimitri yanks her up by her arms, turning her back towards him and hiking up her dress with all the grace of a predator rending its kill. He presses Byleth to his body with one hand, splaying his fingers wide across her belly. His hand is so large it spans the flat plane of her, and the wetness between her legs grows slicker at the thought of his fingers digging up into the space of her cunt. The former mercenary covers his hand with one of her own, feeling the tendons and muscle taut with his blood-strength. She pushes him into her, further, deeper, wanting to feel every inch of his larger body aligned with hers.

The King licks at her jugular, biting another love-mark into the space just beneath her ear as her voice catches high in her throat. His scent fills her senses, icy frost and ancient firs; Faerghus long before the progenitor god and eternally after.

“Tell me what you want,” Dimitri growls, the sound like gravel in his throat, rough along the edges of Byleth’s Nabatean ears. She tries to push his hand down down _down,_ beneath the band of her smallclothes to where her clit is swollen and flushed and needy. But for all of her divinity as the vessel of Sothis, not even she can command the Savior King at the apex of his power. His hand remains pressed to her belly, unmoving, a starburst in limbo against her skin.

“ _You,_ Dimitri,” the High Priestess breathes, unmade in his arms and made for him.

“What part of me, beloved?” Her husband nips at the point of her ear, licking his way to the line of her jaw. She can feel his control pulled taut over his Crest, threadbare, waiting for her to tear it asunder.

“Your mouth,” Byleth reaches up to touch his jaw, “your hands,” trails a hand down his arm, “your strength,” digs her nails into the tendons, “your cock,” grinds her ass against his opened trousers. A breathy moan catches in her husband’s throat. She moves in for the kill.

“Your _Crest._ ”

A thousand years of Blaiddyd strength runs through Dimitri’s veins, and Byleth offers herself up to the mouth of the lion that lives in him, a sacrificial lamb at the altar of his need.

And he is _gone_.

The King of Faerghus growls dark and deep at the line of her jugular, breath run ragged and raw from his lungs as he lifts the High Priestess from the floor to shove her unceremoniously to their bed. His fingers claw at the clasp of her collar, ripping the fabric from her neck like the delicate threads of a spider’s web. The sound of the heavy wool tearing is thunderous in their bedchamber, a visceral demonstration of his blood-strength. Byleth _keens_ at the sensation and at the bitter winter chill that buries itself into her naked skin, if only for a moment. 

Dimitri’s hands move from her ruined neckline down her chest, wrenching the wool out of the way to expose the soft flesh of her tits. Byleth chokes down a throaty sound when he thumbs one of her nipples, pressing a hot, wet kiss to her other. Her fingers card through his half-tail, hair messy and wild around his head like a mane. She presses his mouth into her skin, then further still. She cradles his jaw as he mouths her tit, swirling his tongue and sucking at her breast like a babe in arms. The electric current of his Crest cuts lightning behind her eyes and down her spine to pool heavy and bright in the space of her hips.

The King’s teeth nip at her skin, biting bruises like watercolor into the soft flesh that have Byleth cursing and praising him in equal measure. He follows each love-mark with a swipe of his tongue to soothe the red-raw sting, moving to her other breast to match blood for blood. He grips her waist, holding his wife flush against the thick blankets, even as her hips buck and twist to meet his. His hands around her are so _big_ , his thumbs meeting at her belly button, nails digging half-moons into her sides and the spaces of her ribs.

(Dimitri could crush her whole with his bare hands, rip her bones from her flesh to craft a weapon glittering and god-made, and _oh_ how she would let him carve the stars from the sky to offer them at her feet.)

Byleth feels a hard tug, and more of her dress melts from her body in a tangle of wool and lace. Dimitri throws her legs up, yanking the offending material off and tossing it aside. The clothiers at Garreg Mach aren’t as familiar with the byproducts of generations of Blaiddyd strength as the staff of Castle Fhirdiad, but the High Priestess can’t find it in herself to care when her husband parts her legs and presses rough kisses to her belly, nipping at the juncture of her thigh on his way down.

One hand holds her leg up while the other traces the band of her smallclothes. Byleth’s breath hitches when her husband dips a finger beneath it, then two, then three, circling her clit and sliding over her folds. The stretch of the thin material across her hips grounds her, and she relishes the feeling of it indenting her skin as Dimitri works a finger inside her cunt. She’s plush and wet like a battle-fresh wound, her inner muscles greedy, pussy clamping down on him as he works her open.

The King presses his mouth to hers, swallowing the soft sighs and fevered noises she spills down his throat. He adds a second finger, sliding slick against the first. Byleth’s hands cup his jaw, trailing through his hair and over the soft fabric securing his eyepatch. A third finger in her pussy has her moaning ragged into his kisses, tugging harshly on his hair. The High Priestess tries to close her legs against the onslaught of searing sensation as Dimitri thumbs her clit, but his other hand wrenches her thigh to the sheets as he wrenches her open, feeling the give of her flesh as she clenches down on his fingers, holding him in.

The fire that burned in her belly for hours now feels at fever pitch, the liquid, heavy heat that ached beneath her skin transformed by Dimitri’s slick-slide fingers and the biting sting of his teeth. He grips Byleth’s hip hard enough to leave a smattering of bruises, yanking her down onto his fingers that dig into the space of her cunt and up where she ends. Byleth breaks their kiss, panting, head thrown back against the pillows and she feels so _full,_ full enough like she’ll _break—_

Dimitri’s Crest _sings_ in his blood at the feeling of his wife coming around his fingers; it flickers in the spaces of his ribs and the hollow of his throat. She pulses around him in time with his heartbeat, thundering in his chest, and the rhythm of her is almost painful in its intensity. 

Byleth’s vision is like the brightest lightning, glittering and sharp. Her cunt clenches around Dimitri’s fingers as if it means to break them. Pleasure-pain splinters up her spine and branches out to her nerve endings, a thick, liquid heat bubbling in the depths of her throat like champagne and honey. A howl escapes her teeth, the tendons of her hands taut in Dimitri’s hair and her toes curled in the air. The Crest of Flames shimmers wild and unholy at her fingertips, nipping at the line of the King’s jaw, tempting further the beast beneath it.

Dimitri removes his fingers, coated in the warm wetness of his wife’s orgasm. The High Priestess bites back a whimper at the feeling of emptiness that leaves her wanting. He may not be able to fully taste the sharpness of her yet, but her husband savors the slick liquid of her body down his throat as he licks his fingers clean, and relishes the look on her face as he meets her gaze. 

Byleth is the image of unabashed need, crowned in gold and sitting up on her forearms amidst the pillows. Her cheeks are pinched pink with arousal, eyes glassy and endless. Her plush tits rise and fall with the heaving of her breath, locks of her hair curled softly over her shoulders and slicked with sweat to her skin. The line of love-marks across her neck and the bruises in the shape of his fingertips on her hip make the King weak, make him hunger.

“Dimitri—”

The blond silences the High Priestess with a hand around her neck, the same hand that dug glimmer-pleasure from her cunt and swept it across his tongue. Byleth’s eyes widen, pupils wyvern-dark and thin, hound-teeth peeking from behind her red-raw lips. Her smallclothes are torn from her body, paper-thin in his hands. Dimitri doesn’t bother removing any of his clothes, merely shoving the wool of his trousers aside and pressing his hips into hers, the heat of his cock on her lower belly like a brand. He ruts against her, drawing whimpers from her as she writhes her hips against him, aching and empty. His free hand moves between her legs, holding her steady as he pushes inside.

The sound he rips from her throat as he stretches her wide is like a hymn, divinity made flesh to dwell in the depths of his heart and the marrow of his bones. Words are lost to Byleth; she feels like she’s going to come apart at the seams, unmade and remade in the image of pleasure and power. A heat like madness splits up her spine to settle in her chest, beating through her body in time with her blood. Dimitri is so _warm,_ so _big_ , his hand on her throat to cut her breath slow, even as her pulse races in her neck and in the depths of her cunt.

The rough friction of his clothes on Byleth’s skin burns as he begins to move, and she claws at thick wool and starched cotton, wanting more. Her body is hot and wet and all-encompassing, a delicious slick-slide around his cock as he fucks into her as hard and fast as the shimmer of his Crest and the beast unbidden in his heart will allow. Her fingers claw at his hand beneath her jaw, scratching lines that connect his scars as she tightens his grip. The pressure on the sides of her neck lights a patchwork of stars in her vision that comes and goes with the in-out-in-out rhythm of his hips, where the thrum of her pulse and the slam of his body into hers are one and the same.

Dimitri’s free hand grabs under her knee, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder as he moves to kneel, sitting back on his heels. The change in angle makes the stars in Byleth’s vision come alive, setting her skin alight as he tilts her hips upwards. Her back arches off the blankets as the fire in her belly grows from a throbbing heat to a blinding blaze. The pins of her halo crown dig into the spaces behind her ears, but the pinprick of the metal barely registers amidst the hot, heady feeling of her husband stretching her wide on his cock and holding her life in the hand beneath her jaw.

(He could kill her. The hum of his Crest beneath his skin is an animal untamed and unmade, primal in its need and primordial in its power; he could snap her neck with a flick of his wrist if her sacrifice would please it. That she is at the mercy of the Savior King, throat between the teeth of the lion that lives in him, slicks her cunt in a way no amount of release ever could.)

“Beloved,” Dimitri rasps, “ _my_ Beloved.” The growl in his throat is rough in the High Priestess’s ears, like gravel digging into the lines of her skin and scratching at the seams of her bones. His thrusts are ragged, gradually losing their rhythm. Byleth can feel how close he is to coming, and slides her nails down through the dusting of hair on his chest, soaks up his warmth beneath cotton and wool. The blond is panting, breathless, moans bubbling in his mouth to drip from his teeth, liquid and hot and spilling over her tits and the curve of her hip in his hand. His face is flushed, bottom lip bitten red-raw, his single eye glazed over as his Crest flickers in its depths. Sweat sticks his bangs to his forehead, and Byleth is overcome with love and longing for the feeling of him jutting up inside her where she ends. She breathes deep, and his fingers press into her neck one last time as she clenches her pussy down on his cock, perfectly in sync.

“ _Byleth—_ ”

His release is like stars, crushed in his mouth, clattering to the sheets to adorn the altar he has made of her body. Byleth never thinks it’s possible for him to feel any bigger inside of her and then somehow he _does._ The breath she took is caught in her lungs, swimming beneath her ribs, burning in her core as he burns just as brightly inside her. Dimitri comes hot and thick and heady in her cunt and he doesn’t _stop,_ filling her until she overflows, liquid sliding sticky from between her folds and onto the blankets. His nails dig half-moons into her skin with the force of keeping himself sheathed to the hilt inside her.

It feels like an eternity condensed into seconds when the King releases her throat, allowing the High Priestess to breathe the color of afterglow into her lungs, the world righting itself behind her eyes. He holds her flush against him, running a hand through his hair swept wild around his head like a mane. He presses a gentle kiss to her calf, slowly bringing her leg down so she can hook it around his waist. Both of her heels dig into the wool at the small of his back, cradling him in the space of her hips to keep him warm and within her. Dimitri’s hands follow the curve of Byleth’s thighs, trailing over her ribs and up to the plush softness of her tits. He leans over her, licking love and heat into her mouth. He presses fevered kisses to her lips as he grinds languidly against her, the aftershocks of orgasm prickling with his Crest beneath his skin. Soft whimpers escape him, bitten from his throat by his wife’s teeth and swallowed whole to her belly.

“Again,” Byleth demands between kisses. Her voice is raw and torn in her ears, harsh like the love-marks that stain her neck. She might love the sound even more than her husband does. “Fuck me and fill me again, like you need, like I want.”

“Anything for you, Beloved.”

Dimitri lifts her up into his lap as if she weighs no more than an owl feather. Her halo crown glitters liquid gold in the low firelight of their chambers, starbursts framing her hair; the blond is but a worshipper at her altar, the tangled, stained sheets beneath them sacred ground. The High Priestess cradles his jaw in her hands, biting his bottom lip with greedy kisses. She feels his fingers dig needily into the curve of her hip and the flesh of her thigh. His voice crawls from his throat in fits and starts, short thrusts of his hips digging his cock up into her, his hunger far from sated.

Byleth pushes her husband’s thick doublet and shirt from his shoulders, pawing at wool and starched cotton until all of it is forgotten on the floor. Her nails scratch through the dusting of hair on his chest, mapping the lines of his scars like a star-seeker does constellations. His Crest hums at her fingers like an electric current, and the taste-touch of it behind her eyes is ancient, endless; it is fire and blood and ash in her mouth, the unbearable lightness of being.

Byleth pulls the tie from the blond’s half-tail, tossing it aside to be forgotten with the rest of their clothes until morning. Her fingers card gently through his hair and trail sparks over his scalp. She swears he purrs at the sensation, arms wrapped tightly around her as he licks and nips at the softness of her tits. His hips buck subtly up into her as he tongues one of her nipples, a plea and a warning all at once. She slides his eyepatch from his face, black fabric giving way to a jagged scar across his eyelid and a clouded eye too-long damaged to ever see again. His iris is a foggy, murky blue that reminds her of stars and the dust of the earth; an endless depth that has seen things no man ever should, and that Byleth has sworn he will never need to survive again.

The High Priestess presses a kiss to each of his mismatched eyes, haunting and human in equal measure, before shoving him to the sheets with her hand. A hiss crackles through his teeth as her fingers trace the line of his neck, scratching over the hollow of his throat and across his chest. She rotates her hips, slow and steady and slick in his lap, pinning him not with her strength but with the promise of him buried deeper into her cunt. Byleth leans over him, her mint hair falling guardian around their faces. She kisses the space where his neck meets his jaw that makes him grip her hair, following the curve of his throat and over his collarbone until she reaches the scar on his shoulder. Dimitri whimpers when she digs her hound-teeth into the jagged tissue, and he arches into the pleasure-pain of the love-mark she leaves behind, rewriting the story of his skin until its ending is nothing but her.

The Crest of Flames flares in her belly and the tips of her fingers as she steadies herself, hands firm to his chest. Byleth rocks above her husband, beginning a slow rhythm that drives him mad with want and need and the wet heat of her pussy clenching around him, drawing him in. 

“Beloved,” he pants, voice languid and low, “ _G_ _oddess."_

“ _S_ _hhh_ ,” she soothes, pinning his wrists to the blankets as she moves. His Crest tumbles beneath his skin, restless and starved in the tendons and sinew of his strength. It acquiesces to her own, god and god-made in harmony, but Byleth knows she cannot tame the lion in him, only give it the freedom to devour her whole. His hips rise to meet hers and she slams her body down, leaning over so that the friction of her clit against his lower belly rushes heat heady and hot to her core. The thick stretch of his cock up where she ends makes her breath come in keens and sighs, aided by the slick-slide of his seed that coats her, inside and out.

The King wrests one of his hands from her grip, fingers tracing down between her tits to feel the swell of her ribs as she breathes and fucks herself on him. She’s crowned in gold and stars and the Crest of Flames hangs thick in the air like honey. Her skin is flushed and sweat-sticky all the way down to her belly, every inch the goddess she carries in her heart and across the world with her. His hand is so big it covers the flat plane of her and she arches into his touch, the dull edges of her hipbones pressing into his fingers. Dimitri swears he can feel himself stuffed inside her, full and filling, and Byleth aches at the thought, making sure that he can.

It’s too much and not enough and everything and nothing and all things inbetween, and Dimitri’s throat is too thick with pleasure and heat to say her name as he throws his head back against the blankets. The undone and the divine glimmer in his mismatched eyes as he spills inside her a second time, liquid-thick and hot. He coats her cunt and the juncture of his thighs, spilling out from her to stain the wool of his trousers, sticky and slick. His wife’s folds are filthy and swollen, flushed like her clit and just as sensitive as the added warmth sends her over the edge with him. It’s a deeper, darker heat in her core than before, spreading slow from the depth of her pussy to the tips of her fingers and toes, heavy like a wave, dragging her under. She’s wet and plush like a fresh wound, a sex-slick mess as Dimitri’s hand presses into her belly, keeping her still and soaked as he twitches up where she ends.

His Crest flares along the line of his jaw, flickering in the hollow of his throat, teetering on the edge of starved and sated. Byleth lets go of his hand as he sits up to follow her, crushing her to his chest. One of his hands fists in her hair, the other splayed across her back to feel her shoulder blades and the ridges of her spine. She inhales his scent; fractured ice and frostbitten pine, glittering cold enough to burn.

“Byleth,” he pants into the curve of her shoulder, “I need, I can’t, I—”

The High Priestess takes his head in her hands, kissing the words from his mouth to taste them on her tongue. Dimitri whimpers down her throat, a plea and a warning and now a prayer, all at once.

“Anything?” She echoes his earlier sentiment, a question poised at the precipice.

“No, Beloved. _Everything._ ”

“Then take it.”

Dimitri shoves Byleth from his lap onto her back with a growl that is anguished and all-consuming at once, pinning her to the messy sheets; her hair falls in waves around her head like the halo of gold that encircles it. The sudden feeling of being empty gnaws at her belly and aches in the deepest parts of her as her husband removes his trousers, tossing the stained wool to the floor. His kisses trail along the soft curve of his wife’s jaw, down between her tits and over the scars that cross her body like the lines of a map, leading him over the peaks of her hips and the valley of her thighs to the hot, wet oasis that pulses between them. She’s dripping all over their bed, and when he digs a finger, then two, then three up into her cunt she draws in a sharp breath, heady little sighs escaping her throat. He removes them slowly, savoring the thick, slippery warmth and the noises she makes that follow. The blond swipes his fingers over the love-marks that color her breasts, trailing the lines of her scars, marking her with his fluids, sticky and slick.

(The sight of the High Priestess beneath the King of Faerghus, skin splashed with bites and bruises and flushed with salt and sweat, painted like watercolor with his seed, is more sacred than any altar to which he has ever bent his knee in reverence.)

Dimitri nips at the juncture of her thigh, hand pressed into the line of the tendon there. He feels the power of her Crest in the pulsepoint, aching and overwhelming. He buries his nose in her soft, mint-colored curls, sliding his tongue from folds to clit in a single swipe. Byleth’s sigh cascades into a scream, grabbing his hair, clawing at his jaw, touching any part of him to keep his mouth pressed to her pussy. His tongue flicks her clit and circles her entrance in a patchwork pattern of licks and bites, saliva and seed a sex-slick mess between her legs that makes her ache and want and _need_. He digs his tongue inside her, swallowing down the remnants of himself and his pleasure left behind; the barely-there aftertaste down his throat makes his Crest hum almost deafeningly in his ears, second only to the greedy noises he rips from his wife’s teeth as he works.

Byleth is high-strung and holy in his hands. The firm wetness of his tongue against the slick-slide of fluid ignites stars that hang like fireflies behind her eyes. Her clit is flushed, swollen, red-raw between his teeth and soothed by his tongue. It’s too much and yet not enough, a heady flicker that pulls her apart and stitches her back together again and again, like breathing and suffocating in equal measure.

Dimitri licks love and longing into her cunt as his tongue wipes it clean, circling her clit and sparking fire in her belly one last time before his large hands grab her hips. The blond flips her onto her stomach with practiced ease, as if his wife and her sacred strength are no weight at all. He buries his nose in the muscle of her shoulder, taking in the scent of her; incense and leather and the ozone static of a spell, released upon them both. The slide of skin on skin is heady as he moves over her, covering her smaller body with his own and tilting her hips up. Her entrance is shiny and slick with his saliva, flushed with blood and heat and when she looks back at him over her shoulder, it is all he can do not to devour the High Priestess whole. He presses a hand to the back of her neck, holding her head against the sheets, and buries himself inside her to the hilt.

His free hand cracks across the supple flesh of her ass, and Byleth _keens,_ fingers clawed into the messy, ruined blankets. The tendons of her hands stand stark-white against her skin, and the tingling heat of his handprint is a brand, scalding and smooth. Dimitri covers one of her hands with his own, lacing their fingers as he fucks down into her. He digs his cock up where she ends, thick and heady in the space of her cunt. The bare curve of her neck beneath his hand is a beauty all its own, mint hair spilling to one side and out over the sheets amidst the gold of her halo crown. The King nips at the soft flesh, licks the salt of her skin into his mouth to sting in his throat.

It won’t be long, it never is at the end. Not when she’s plush and hot and slick and he kisses the space between her shoulder blades, in reverence to the sword of her spine and the weight of divinity she carries within her shoulders. Byleth bucks her hips against the blond, curving the small of her back in the way that makes both Crest and color glitter behind her eyes. She can feel their blood-strength humming wherever their bodies touch, melding and mixing to the point where god and god-made are one and all and the same. Byleth’s body is his altar, the ruined, love-stained sheets their holy ground, and every thrust of his cock in her cunt is his offering to the woman she has always been, to the goddess she has become.

(And now, when he paints her skin with his pleasure and her body consumes him whole, he has come to know that this is what believing in divinity feels like.)

Dimitri wrenches a hand between his wife’s hips and the blankets, smearing slick and saliva over her clit. A keening cry bubbles liquid in her throat to spill from the sharpness of her hound-teeth. He works his hand in time with his cock as he rocks into her, rhythm ragged and unsteady. Pleasure-pain licks up the High Priestess’s spine like fire, crashing and splashing across her nerve endings in a heady blaze that settles heavy in her belly. The clench of her cunt around him is overwhelming; her husband shivers with the effort of letting her body consume him, unmaking and remaking him in a vicious cycle that only drives him deeper, pulls her closer. The anguished noises that bleed from his throat send shivers down her spine in time with his fingers gliding rough over her clit. His nails dig into her neck where he keeps her pinned, her legs curve up around his hips and her toes curl in the air, and all around them, sound and fury—

It is the end of one universe behind Dimitri’s eyes, the beginning of another in his heart. His Crest is a starburst in the depths of him, brilliant and blinding from the points of his teeth to the tips of his toes. It is an animal undone, unmade, broken free of its bondage for an eternal instant. The part of him that yearns to conquer and claim and leave a part of himself behind _sings_ in his blood as Byleth’s cunt fills and fills, takes everything his cock can give and then takes _more_. Her every nerve is alight with the feeling of his seed coating every space of her, spilling out to drip sticky and slick to the sheets as she swallows him whole and chokes on the excess. Her pussy clenches viciously around him, milking him dry, pulsing in time with the beat of her blood that carries the glimmer of her pleasure and her Crest from lungs to limbs. 

Dimitri’s hand takes mercy on Byleth’s swollen clit, sliding his hand up to cradle the softness of her belly where perhaps this time, they will create new life; a future molded from ash and fire and the metal-tang of blood, tempered in the snowy dew of a new horizon, and what is iron will, if not forged?

Dimitri pulls his wife close, and Byleth buries her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the electric scent of his Crest that flickers around him like fireflies, tasting pleasure and power in the depths of her throat. Breath rumbles in his chest like a purr as he comes down, the lion in him sated from its feast upon her body until its hunger encompasses it again. She feels him draw the runes of a spell between her shoulder blades, the mess of seed and sweat strewn about the sheets and over their skin winking out of existence. The weight of her halo crown suddenly lifts from her head, hitting the floor with a soft _clink_. Byleth leans up to press a gentle kiss to her husband’s lips, licking love across his teeth and down his throat to settle warm in his chest and wild in the lines of his scars. The watercolors of love-marks and bruises begin to ache softly beneath her skin, and the faster she falls asleep, the faster she can feel them the morning after. Heavy blankets cover her shoulders, enveloping her in comforting warmth. Dimitri kisses her forehead, and his world-wielding eyes are the last thing Byleth sees as a satiated sleep overtakes them both.

(There are days Byleth curses Sothis for her journey from the Blue Sea Star to Fódlan; for man's theft of the fire that had flickered through her veins, so that he may know what it means to burn.

But never nights like this one.)

**Author's Note:**

>  _make crest kink a real tag, cowards_  
>    
> i'm probs going to write a fic featuring my HCs about how cryptid elder-god byleth rebuilds/remakes the church post-AM (and after every route tbh, she deserves it). it'll probably be long and intricately detailed and somehow feature an obscene amount of porn, bc that's what happens when i'm allowed near a keyboard
> 
> (yeah i'll probably write that fhirdiad throne sex thing too)
> 
> feel free to yell with me about dimileth and fe3h in general on [twit](http://www.twitter.com/cryonica_arts)


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